


Ship in a Bottle

by MamzelleCombeferre



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, You cannot tell me Molly and Fjord don't try and talk to each other in the room, alcohol consumption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 22:08:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14903004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamzelleCombeferre/pseuds/MamzelleCombeferre
Summary: After returning to Zadash from their mission in the Labenda Swamp, Fjord has a bit too much to drink, and Molly tries to offer some comfort.





	Ship in a Bottle

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is only my second fic for the Crit Role fandom, but also this is the most fanfiction I've written in years. I am LIVING! Hope you all enjoy reading this as much as I did writing it! I wrote this in one evening, and posted it at almost 2:30am, so forgive any typos the author missed in her hazy tired editing.

He sits heavily on a stool by the bar. With a quick knock on the counter to catch the attention of the barmaid, Fjord slides two gold pieces over. He orders as much whiskey as that will get him- about two-thirds of a middle shelf bottle’s worth. She sits it in front of him with an empty glass, walking off to help another of the few remaining customers seated around the inn. He pours a half glass, knocks it back. He pours another, this time full, and does the same. 

The third pour he lets sit. It’s funny how a few days on the road, sleeping in a variety of uncomfortable places, can make anything feel like home. The Song and Supper Inn in Zadash is not ship off the coast of Wildemount, but it is a sight for sore eyes upon arrival nonetheless. It had been late when the Mighty Nein finally rolled into the city, and even later still when they finished unpacking their things into their rooms after visiting the Gentleman to report on their mission. 

He rolls his neck, left then right, then knocks back the third drink. It burns his throat the whole way down, settling like a lead weight in his empty stomach. He pours a fourth glass. Caleb and Nott had trudged upstairs almost immediately, claiming sleep and study needs. Beau, Jester, and Yasha followed soon after. Fjord had opted to stay up for awhile longer. He had not slept much in the last few days since his episode in the safe house, and what hours he had caught were more restless than restful. 

Still, he was not ready to take that plunge again quite yet. He closes his eyes and water swims in front of him, dark in all directions. He opens them again. He knocks back the fourth drink, following it with a grimace as he clears his throat. The alcohol leaves his chest feeling buzzy and warm, almost uncomfortably so, while doing his headache no favors. His vision starts to swim a little, even with his eyes open, so he closes them, then opens them again. It doesn’t help.

A hand rests on his shoulder and he whirls around, fist raised in the ready, to be met with the sight of a startled purple tiefling. Fjord drops his fist immediately, using that hand to scrub his eyes now. “Fuck Molly! Give a man some warning."

Molly holds his hands up in surrender, sitting smoothly on the stool next to Fjord. “Sorry friend didn’t mean to scare.” His gaze moves from Fjord’s flushed face to rest on the now slightly less than half full bottle. “Might want to slow down on that.” 

Fjord barks a sharp, mirthless laugh. “That’s rich, Molly. I saw how hungover you were the day after that gnoll fight in Alfield.” And before Molly can get a word in edgewise he continues, “And don’t try to tell me that was different. Ain’t nothing different about it.” He shuts his mouth now, pouring another drink. His real accent had started to poke through at the end, the twangy accent harder and harder to uphold the more the liquor works its way through his system. 

His limbs feel heavy now, but the weight on his chest is lessened. He feels looser than he has in days…weeks…months, and that’s nice, but dangerous. 

The tiefling raises his hands in the same gesture again, turning it deftly into a wave at the barmaid. “Another glass please?” 

“Anything you’d like sir.” She says, voice betraying fatigue at the late hour. Even Molly’s accent has grown thicker as the evening wears on. She hands him the glass, and walks off again, this time disappearing into the kitchen. 

Molly tips the glass wordlessly towards the bottle, now only a quarter full, as if to ask you mind? Fjord debates grabbing the bottle and downing the rest of it right there, out of what, spite? Frustration? Instead he slides it over towards the tiefling, who fills his glass to the brim, draining half of it in one sip. He takes the burn like a champ, though Fjord is not surprised. He’s seen Molly drink worse swill than this in larger quantities. 

After a few moments of silent reflection as Fjord drains his last glass, and Molly sips slowly at the last half of his drink, the tiefling breaks the silence by asking, “Copper for your thoughts?” 

Fjord’s head is buzzing like a hornet’s nest now, the alcohol hitting fast and heavy all at once. From his, admittedly impaired, judgement, only maybe an hour and half had passed since he first sat. “Don’ have anythin’ to say.” He mumbles, words sliding and colliding into each other, crashing on a wave of drunken nausea that turns his stomach. 

Molly’s gaze is impossibly soft, and Fjord just can’t handle it, so he looks down at his lap. His hands rest there uselessly, so he starts fidgeting with the red cord he keeps tied around his waist. 

“You need to get some sleep Fjord.” Molly’s voice is not forceful, nor is it pleading. It simply is, a statement of fact, thought tinged with real concern. “I don’t think I’ve seen you sleep more than a wink in three days.” 

“Don’ wan’ t’a sleep.” The half-orc says, twisting the loose ends of the cord around his pointer finger so tight the digit goes pale. “Th’ dreams…” He trails off into an inaudible mumble. He loosens the cord again and the color rushes back. 

“You’re already exhausted. Going to make yourself ill if you haven’t already.” Molly sets his glass down, reaching a hand to rest the back of it against Fjord’s forehead. 

Emotion lurches inside his chest at the easy touch, clenching around his heart and squeezing. Jester flashes through his brain at that, but he shuts it down quick. She deserves better than his drunken musings. “M’m not ill.” He will not cry, damn it, he won’t, though his eyes sting at the corners. 

Molly tuts maternally. “That fever says otherwise. C’mon, up to bed with you. The room’s ready.” He slides off the stool, placing another gold piece on the counter for the barmaid to pick up on her way out. He grabs the half-orc’s shoulders, twisting gently to get Fjord to slide so he is standing on the floor. 

The floor sways slightly, or maybe it’s just Fjord, a combo of alcohol induced vertigo and the shivering that wracks his frame. Either way he feels like he did fifteen years ago on his first time sailing with Vandrin. 

If Molly notices his tears, he does not say anything, just hoists Fjord’s arm around his shoulder’s and walks him up the stairs. Fjord has not been a praying man for many years, but he sends a prayer of gratitude to whichever deity happens to be listening for the tiniest blessings. 

Molly helps the half-orc strip down to his underclothes, which are damp with more sweat than expected, and lays him down on the bed on top of the blanket. “Got to get that temp down.” The tiefling explains, stepping away to undress himself and complete his nightly sword wrapping ritual. The last thing Fjord remembers before sleep overtakes him is the press of a cool cloth against his temple and the small comfort of knowing someone who cared was there.


End file.
